I remember the first time I actually got up to any decent speed on my bicycle as a kid. It was down one of those 'Dead Man's HIll' type streets that we would all stand around and dare each other to ride down. Inevitably, this boulevard of death took you past the Creepy Lady's house, past the house that always hands out raisins on Halloween, and past the Haunted House where the Axe Murderer lives.
Of course the conversation usually wound up sounding something like;
"I dare you to ride it."
"I'll do it if you do it!."
"Nuh-uh. I dared you first."
"I double dare you then!"
And, after a few grape drinks and some Ritz crackers, someone would usually wind up riding down the hill and end up on their face. One day, that was me. I vividly remember getting up to speed, looking over at the Raisin House, and hearing the rush of wind over my ears. Then, as I approached the Haunted House, I looked away so as not to be scared only to fixate on the broken asphalt rushing just inches beneath my pedals. I couldn't believe how fast I was going. I really was fixated, to the point where I developed the dreaded speed wobble. Seconds later the bike was ejecting me onto the street below. I never even made it to the Creepy Lady's house. Bactine is not a fond childhood memory for me.
Fast forward 25 years and I found myself in an oddly similar situation. Standing around at night talking to our vehicle logitication master, Mike Schmidt, he offered the recently de-doored Wrangler for my drive home.
"Come on dude. Take it."
"Uh, no doors at all?"
"No man, no doors. Come on. I dare you." He may or not have actually verbalized the dare, but I could see it in his eyes.
"Alright, I'll do it."
Knowing that I have a drive home that involves 15 miles of highway, seemed furthest from my mind. But after I hit the freeway, it all came rushing back. The grape drink. The wind. The Raisin House. And with one quick glance to the left, the rushing road beneath my feet. I stared at it long enough to fixate on the lane line and drift slightly out of my lane. But my resolve strengthened, and as I righted the speeding Jeep I noticed that Mike Schmidt was passing me in our Mini Cooper S. I snapped out of my childhood PTSD, grabbed my camera and popped off a shot.
I got home that night, energized. I had stared the 70 mph asphalt down, and I'd won. But the only think I could think about was riding my bike in defiance past the Crazy Lady's house. What can I say, I need closure.
Kurt Niebuhr, Photo Editor @ 13,470 miles
"I dare you to ride it."
"I'll do it if you do it!."
"Nuh-uh. I dared you first."
"I double dare you then!"
And, after a few grape drinks and some Ritz crackers, someone would usually wind up riding down the hill and end up on their face. One day, that was me. I vividly remember getting up to speed, looking over at the Raisin House, and hearing the rush of wind over my ears. Then, as I approached the Haunted House, I looked away so as not to be scared only to fixate on the broken asphalt rushing just inches beneath my pedals. I couldn't believe how fast I was going. I really was fixated, to the point where I developed the dreaded speed wobble. Seconds later the bike was ejecting me onto the street below. I never even made it to the Creepy Lady's house. Bactine is not a fond childhood memory for me.
Fast forward 25 years and I found myself in an oddly similar situation. Standing around at night talking to our vehicle logitication master, Mike Schmidt, he offered the recently de-doored Wrangler for my drive home.
"Come on dude. Take it."
"Uh, no doors at all?"
"No man, no doors. Come on. I dare you." He may or not have actually verbalized the dare, but I could see it in his eyes.
"Alright, I'll do it."
Knowing that I have a drive home that involves 15 miles of highway, seemed furthest from my mind. But after I hit the freeway, it all came rushing back. The grape drink. The wind. The Raisin House. And with one quick glance to the left, the rushing road beneath my feet. I stared at it long enough to fixate on the lane line and drift slightly out of my lane. But my resolve strengthened, and as I righted the speeding Jeep I noticed that Mike Schmidt was passing me in our Mini Cooper S. I snapped out of my childhood PTSD, grabbed my camera and popped off a shot.
I got home that night, energized. I had stared the 70 mph asphalt down, and I'd won. But the only think I could think about was riding my bike in defiance past the Crazy Lady's house. What can I say, I need closure.
Kurt Niebuhr, Photo Editor @ 13,470 miles
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